Steel
by makapedia
Summary: His meister enjoys handling him. Weaponsexual smut.


His meister enjoys handling him.

Normally, this isn't a problem; she wields him in the most literal way, with a firm grasp on the shaft of his scythe and a poised-but-dangerous gleam in her angel eyes as she rushes head-first into battle. In fact, he prefers it this way. While he's the scarier looking of the two, all things considered, Maka's the one with the cut-throat bravery and a talent for slicing through monster flesh, and life runs that much smoother with her behind the wheel. She is meister, and he is weapon.

On and off of the battle field.

Her grip is particularly tight tonight and it sends little shudders of excitement up and down him. His sense of being is always a little off when he's a scythe and the translation of his anatomy is always a little fuzzy. It's something they never talk about, something never discussed in detail at the academy, something Soul wisely keeps his mouth shut about, because he'll be damned if he's the first to crack and let Maka know that her bare hands on the cool metal of his blade makes his soul bleed with misplaced arousal.

Maka holds him like he's an extension of her being. There's no separation between meister and weapon; she moves like grace and swings with power, his blade sinking deep into the neck of the sand-packed dummy. This is what she was born to do, after all. A legacy through and through, she's the textbook definition of perfect form and technique.

Soul's only a little ashamed to find it hot. Only a little - her bangs are damp against her forehead, tie loose and oxford shirt unbuttoned enough for him to sneak peeks of her sweat-glistened throat every time she hefts him back to rest against her shoulder while she catches her breath. His blood burns and he bites it back, just barely; it's not madness that boils beneath the thin veneer of cool that he carefully maintains as Maka plucks another button free.

His wavelength is calm and collected as he asks, "No good?"

She bites the tip of the middle finger of her glove and rips it off of her hand. He stares through the eye of his scythe like a filthy, horny preteen who just got his hands on his first porn mag. "I pulled a little to the left."

"Looked fine to me. Real targets _move,_ you know."

"It could cost us in the heat of battle," she replies smartly. Her bare hand pushes through her bangs. "We can't chance it."

He really doubts that sinking his blade an inch to the left of where she's aiming will really spell out certain death, especially considering his status (deathscythe, thank you very much) and hers (meister who kicked his sorry ass into gear every day and _made him a death scythe_ ), but Soul knows to pick his battles. Instead, he hums in quiet contentment, watching her juggle his shaft into the hook of her elbow, peel off her other glove and pull at her sweater vest.

"Why do you still wear that? It's like, _June._ In _Nevada_."

She blinks up at him. It's incredible how quickly she can go from exhausted, sweat-drenched warrior goddess to doe-eyed nerdette and he loves it. "It's uniform."

"It's four in the afternoon. School's _over._ And you can wear whatever the fuck you want to school when you're meister of the last deathscythe and best friends with Lord Death."

"That would be abuse of power and connections!" she scolds, gripping him again and tightening her grasp. It's meant to be a punishment - he knows that, probably the equivalent of squeezing his arm when he tells a particularly crude joke - but he can't smother the spike of thrill that pulses through his wavelength like poison. Thick, potent poison, and Maka's eyes burn greener and brighter than before as she mumbles, "What?"

If he had skin right now, he'd be sweating like a pig. With a boner. Then again, if he had skin right now, he probably wouldn't be in this mess. "Nothing."

"No, what was that?" she pushes, voice tipping annoyingly into prying territory. "Your soul just-"

"Nothing!" he hisses.

Maka's narrows her eyes at him. Perceptive meister eyes peer at him as she slowly approaches with her other hand, fingers calloused and clinical and definitely not supposed to be hot. Her thumb brushes curiously over the place where shaft meets eye and he tries to stifle the burn but can't. Her brows furrow. She does it again, and again, rubbing with those fingers of hers, hands that wield and control and reduce his iron-clad facade into oversexed pudding.

It must seep through resonance, because she draws her gaze up from his handle to blink at his eye. "... _Oh_."

Fuck him sideways. "Oh?"

"Oh," she says slowly, reality dawning upon her. "You _like_ that."

It's worth noting, perhaps, that they're together. Like t _ogether_ together, like-like each other, boyfriend-girlfriend and every other immature middle-school codename for dating. And knee-deep in feelings, both sexual and romantic, and yeah, they might've fucked each other's brains out once or twice before.

Or once a twice a week. But he's not counting.

"Uhhhhh," he stutters. "I don't?"

"Don't lie."

She's got that look in her eyes, the one that usually leads to Maka in his bed, Maka, naked and tucked against him - Maka, with her hands braced on his hips as she rides him into oblivion, head thrown back as she works and works for her release and uses him like the nifty tool he is. He's a tool that breathes and loves and shudders when she calls his name, though, and on top of that, he's well trained to stand at attention and obey when she grips his shaft, _whichever_ shaft that may be.

"Soul," she says again, voice a dangerous blend of meister and bedroom. He gets the shivers again. "Do you like it when I hold you?"

"Euuuuhhhh," he groans. _Do not pant like a dog._ "Yeah… y-your hands are, uh, bare."

She licks her lips. "And?"

"... And they're usually not. It's just - my metal is sen _sitive?!_ "

Rubbing. Maka's _rubbing_ again, and _where is his head?_ Which head is he supposed to be listening to? Ah, probably not the one that very well would be _weeping_ under her ministrations but he's never been very good at paying attention to anything but her. Her hands are strong and nails are blunt as she travels down his handle, back up and along the ridge where blade meets shaft.

Her face burns a pink that reminds him of sex. Maka's voice is wobbly as she asks, "Is it good?"

"Uhhhuh," he slurs, almost with stupid with pleasure.

"Let me ride you."

Soul makes a sharp choking sound. "Wh-?"

She takes him into both hands and holds him between her legs, blade pointing down. It's reminiscent of flight position, so he follows her lead and shrinks down his blade until she's got him comfortably between her thighs, pressed up against her like she always does, only now the connotations are a lot more _adventurous_. There's not much of a view from down here, pointed toward the ground, which is disappointing, because he'd been quite happy sneaking peeks at the slender, graceful line of her throat.

"Did you- _Mmmmaka,_ fuckshit-!"

Somehow, between all of the rubbing and embarrassment, Soul seems to have forgotten just _where_ she's got him - at the heat of her, warm and wet and deliriously good against the smooth surface of him. His meister begins working herself against him, pulling and rubbing and grinding her hips onto his shaft like she was born to do it, like a legacy who's known nothing but demon steel and partnerships and doesn't think this is weird at all. It's bizarre, even for him, as he pants uselessly and feels all the glory that is his meister's panties and that maddening, scalding spot tucked between her god-given legs. Her skin is velvety here, supple and soft, as she shifts her stance, pushing and pulling him between her thighs.

He doesn't need to see to know what's happening right now. His meister is wielding him. His meister is handling him to get what she wants and _he loves it._

She begins to shake, knees trembling with exertion as she gasps breathily. There's an alluring, lusty tremble in her soul that he quickly finds himself attaching to. It magnifies the burn in him exponentially, and _god does he want to come_ even if he's not quite sure he really can in this form. He wants to be behind her, hands locked tight on her hips as she leads him, maybe even lets him inside. He wants to be able to touch her, wants to sprout limbs so he can lock an arm around her slim waist and part her mouth with his fingers, let her suck on his thumb down to the bone while she bites back the sound of her peak.

Most of all, though, he really wants to get her off. He really wants to get off to the _feeling_ of her getting off. Nothing else compares.

"I need- ooh, I _need-_ "

" _What,_ " he pants, positively enchanted by the sound of her voice, the way she whimpers between her words and clenches her thighs around him. "What do you need, Maka? Take what you need."

She stumbles down to her knees. His eye and blade clatters to the ground but he doesn't care; on his side, he can see more of her, with one hand on his handle, holding him still while her hips work, the other buried beneath her panties to play with herself. She sucks her lower lip beneath her teeth as she hurries along, working herself so diligently that it almost hurts him to watch.

"Maka," he murmurs. She moans in response. " _Maka,_ I want to help."

"I'm almost…"

A good weapon helps. He doesn't sit by and watch while his meister does all the hard work - _no,_ a good weapon watches strategically and gives advice. And if there's one thing he studies, it's her and her body and how to get her to purr like a kitten.

His voice is almost gritty with lust. "'M right here."

" _Hhh._ "

 _She's_ right there and he knows it, teetering on the brink of something incredible. Her soul burns bright, incandescent and blinding in noise as she hurries closer and closer, toeing the edge as she wobbles. She could come at any time, in the blink of an eye, nearly sobbing as she rubs her clit and grinds herself on him and he wants to get her there. What kind of partner would he be if he left her so close to glory with nothing to show for it?

"Resonate with me," he practically whispers. Maka quivers, soul fluttering like a bird inside her chest. He thinks he feels the flutter of feathers and wings caressing his very being.

A good _meister_ listens to their weapon and she's the best of the best.

And there it is - the _ah-ha!_ moment, the tipping point that pushes her over the edge and she's coming, trembling all around him, creamy thighs locked tight around his steel as she gasps his name. She is a warrior and also a girl, high and darling, as she comes, head tipped back and uneven pigtails billowing over her shoulders, gleaming burnt-gold in the afternoon sun. It's incredible pleasure, a dam-burst of release; feeling her orgasm through the echos of resonance, aftershocks of pleasure bounced back at him through their tight-knit bond is an experience he won't soon forget.

Maka Albarn just got off in the training grounds. Sexually. And he _helped make it happen._

He knows she's still holding onto resonance when he can feel her toes twitch in her boots. She giggles a little, sexual in nature as she lifts a numb leg and tugs him out from beneath her.

"Soul," she says sluggishly. "Transform."

He's on her before he even has a chance to think about it, like clock work. Mystery solved - he can't come in weapon form, judging by the size of his boner (fucking _massive_ ), but Maka doesn't seem to have a problem with giving her partner a hand.


End file.
